The Basket Woman
She wanders slowly along the streets
In a blue flowered housedress.
At every Mass and funeral, she appears,
Her mouth moving soundlessly as a ghost.
She presses a picnic basket to her side,
Large and plain and secret, but we know.
The basket is for babies and for children.
Who has disappeared? Who has “moved away?”
We peer out from behind fences,
Afraid to catch a glimpse of her.
In church, we whisper, trying so hard
Not to turn around. If she sees…
So we go on playing four square and jumprope,
Hoping she’ll take Charlie, who called us fat,
And she stands on the corner, clutching her basket,
Whispering to it too softly for us to hear.
